Nemesis
by MelloxChocolate
Summary: She isn't sure if he knows she knows, if he merely wants her to think that she knows, or if he simply doesn't care. Izaya x Namie.


After four years in the fandom, my first Durarara! fiction, and it's not a Shizaya one...~ Having some ideas for Shizaya fictions, though~  
I just randomly had the idea for this story and an impulse to write Izamie; Namie doesn't get enough love, therefore this story mainly gives insight to her perspective.  
The idea featuring Izaya and Celty's head is from a fanart I saw on Pixiv, just in case anyone is wondering~  
I might or might not write a lemon for this later; it simply felt wrong to put one in this story, therefore this is my first story ever with a T rating.  
For months I thought about what to add to this story, and then I realized it's the way I wanted it to be.

* * *

With disgust, she hands him the container he had asked for, before turning on her heel and leaving the room, barely resisting the urge to slam the door a little louder than usual.

Charmingly running a hand through her ebon hair, she lingers on the other side of the door.  
She isn't sure if he knows she knows, if he merely wants her to think that she knows, or if he simply doesn't care.

That man. Orihara Izaya.

The sweet-tongued devil; mastermind. Ultimate puppet master reigning over life and death; _almost_ a death god himself. Apotheosis.

It's been two months since she last heard from her brother. Izaya claims he has no information, but Namie doesn't believe him.  
However, the fact that Izaya's computer's password was set to "Namie", makes her certain of the fact that she won't be able to get information from him, with or without his awareness, even if he was to have any.

"That thing".  
A severed head that actually might not have been severed, the most beautiful human and yet inhuman; or as Izaya tends to say, the head of a fairy.  
She lost her brother to it, and now she might as well lose- wait, lose what or _who_, exactly? She stops her line of thoughts right before it becomes risky.

Lowering her thumb from her mouth, she hurries to her cellphone to call her beloved brother one more time; the thirteenth time today.

"He won't pick up", she freezes up as she finds arms around her waist and a chin on her shoulder, a warm body pressed to her curved back and crimson eyes, their clarity envisioning to know everything, leering at her with a confident smirk as one hand makes its way dangerously close to the underside of her breast.  
"Just give it up", he breathes down her neck, adding, "well, I know that you can't", as he's pulling away with a waving motion of his hand.

"Sexual harassment?", inhaling deeply, nearly used to this whimsical and flirtatious behaviour, she stubbornly dials the number, just to hear the all too known, and yet providing more friendliness than other people in her life, mechanical voice.

Flicking her phone shut, she closes her eyes as she can hear the ingenious man's chuckling from across the desk he's working on.

He had won, again.

* * *

Her pumps creating the familiar clacking sound, she slams the papers down on his desk.

Again, she hears the almost inaudible moans from behind the door.

With her back leaning against the doorframe and her arms crossed over her chest, she patiently waits. Like every time.  
Maybe, as long as she's still here, she won't be betrayed. Maybe, as long as she subjects herself to this perverse horror, she still has control.  
Or so she thinks, despite knowing that it might in fact not apply. The fingers tapping her arms denoting her nervosity and impatience.

Is it this situation that instills fear in her, or the man himself? She contemplates, burrowing the tips of her roseate fingernails in her sleeves as a sudden chill grips her despite the moderately heated apartment she's in. The man's intentions, along with her own, elude her.

Cradling the auburn hair, Izaya leans back on his lavish bed.

Of course, this game was dangerous.  
In fact, his secretary could burst open the door separating them any moment, but then again, he knows that she won't, which pretty much reduces the risk to zero.

Yagiri Namie, keeping her composure all the time, her face never showing any emotions unless it's related to her little brother, a prodigy and beauty, so alluring and yet so dispelling. A horrible person. An anomaly of this irregular city called Ikebukuro. A monster. Just like him. Well-acquainted loneliness which accompanies superiority like smoke entailing a fire.

Oh, how much fun it would be to break her. How much will it take to actually _accomplish_ it?

Childishly, he rolls around on his bed as he is uttering breathy groans between hidden snickers.

"I wonder if it's even possible?", he mumbles as he pokes his finger inside the slightly open, pinkish cavity. "Maybe I should try it sometime", he blinks, before his expression is overcome with boredom.

"Or not."

* * *

She opens the door to the office.

His trademark fur jacket carelessly thrown onto the end of the leather couch, her manicured hand brushes it as the rays of the sun are reflecting in the glass he's holding up toward the sky that seems almost in his reach, separated just by the window of his skyscraper's apartment. The god of the world; staring at it with a presumptuous smirk, he feels a weight latched on his back.

The head rolls onto the floor as the vessel shatters...

At least for once she wanted to do something he couldn't predict.  
But the malevolent sneer on the man's face makes her think, that perhaps, he predicted even this.

Maybe, all that she is, is a pawn on his chessboard, waiting to be sacrificed and pushed over.  
Which role is her purposely assigned one? The fairy being his queen already.

Her chest clenches, infusing her to indulge the metal deeper into the pale skin as she's straddling his hips on the designer floorboards, her black mini skirt riding up her thighs as her breath quickens and her heart starts racing beneath her well-endowed chest. Her corset-like garments almost stealing her oxygen as the fabric sticks to her spine with cold sweat.

Even this, is what he predicted?

She feels like a statue of glass; as transparent as fragile.

How does this man see the world? How does he see _her_?

"Did you really think I'm doing it with that head?", he breaks into laughter, resting his arm over his eyes as the familiar blade is poked at his throat.

Namie, stares down at him. Puzzled, confused, shamed, angry - relieved.

She's afraid of the moment he will lower his arm, because of what he will see on her face.  
Unable to keep the mask on, she isn't aware herself of her own image.

Her long strands of hair tickling his face, she jolts as he twines his fingers around them; her own curling tighter around the knife's handle.  
Terrified, the glazed, red lips are gaping as the fear bit by bit falls off of her and is being replaced by fluster; the ring's chilly metal on her skin, the hand now caressing her red-dusted cheek; unaccustomed gentleness.

Calculus, an impulse, a whim, an urge or a desire - his lips take possession of hers.

"Do it with poison. It suits you so much more", he softly smiles at her as she can do nothing but roll her eyes.

She doesn't know whether her love for her brother is her Nemesis. Or this man.


End file.
